Crashing into the Light

I thought I had it all under control. Late twenties, great job, great girlfriend. Your average young guy, on the brink of success. Looking good.

But under the surface, not so much. Right up to that night, the night I crashed my car into the lamp post at 90 miles an hour, I thought I had it under control. So you're thinking about killing yourself? No problem. Go and see a friend. He'll talk you out of it. What are friends for?

But it was harder than I thought. I had to down a whole bottle of booze before I had the courage to go. Then, of course, already way over the limit, I got behind the wheel of my brand new car and drove to my friend's place. Total genius. But nothing compared to what I did on the way back.

To be fair to him, he did talk me out of it, with the aid of a few other substances (what are friends for?). "Right," I thought, as I got behind the wheel of my car to drive back home. "Problem solved. Not going to kill myself tonight."

But then, as I sped back up the hill to my house, there was a little voice in my head saying: "Why not do it anyway? Why not just get it over with?" It sounded so convincing - almost comforting.

It was dark, and there were no other cars about. I'd picked up quite a speed on my way up the hill. And there, in my sights, was a solid looking brick wall, just begging to be driven into.

"Why not?" I thought. Like that time someone had slipped a tab of E into my beer, and all Hell broke loose inside my head, with angels and demons fighting over me, and that little voice saying: "Just give into it. Just let go. Just die..."

So I slammed my foot down on that gas pedal, gripped the wheel like I was in control, and drove straight at that brick wall at 90 miles an hour.

It was only in that very last nano-second before I hit the wall that something made me change my mind. Maybe some tiny shred of the happy child I had once been for a few short months, away from the father who used to beat me senseless every day and tell me how worthless I was. Who used to do other things to me that I had no words for and that filled me with shame. That little boy who used to play in rock pools on the seashore and could find every hidden stash of snacks in the kitchen. The little boy who used to laugh and sing at the top of voice. Heck, the little boy who had a voice. I thought he died long ago.

Maybe it was him, or a wisp of a memory of him, that made me swerve. I could no longer kid myself I was in control of the car, or myself, or anything at all. The car veered into a spin, and instead of hitting the brick wall, it hit a lamp post. The front of my brand new car wrapped itself around the lamp post in a soft metallic embrace. Total write off. The airbag deployed. Everything went quiet. The world seemed to stop. Was I dead? Was I alive? Is there even a difference? I got out of the car. I was surprised I could still feel air on my face, or even breathe it.

Out of the corner of my eye, a man walking his dog came up to me. I thought he was going to ask me if I was ok, and I realised I had no idea how to answer the question.

"I spent the whole of yesterday putting that lamp post up," he said laconically, almost more to the car than to me. "So that's a day's work fucked." Then he walked on. The dog stopped to pee against a nearby tree.

Maybe you have to have nearly died to appreciate how poetic normal everyday life can be. And how hopeless we are at understanding any of it. So many of the world's great writers and poets were guys. When did we forget how to speak? And where did all our words go?